TM : Spirit
He's sitting in a dive bar in the part of the city that holds the wretches of society. The hookers, the drunks, the addicts looking for a score. He hasn't shaved in nearly a week, a hand rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, another tucked behind his ear. Fingers, long and elegant, curled around a glass of clear liquid.
It was vodka. Of course it was vodka, because the man was a Russian and it was the way, to get drunk, on vodka, vodka that cost more than the shirt he had on at the moment. Russian way. Keep it locked up safe and sound, do the dirty business in the dead of night, move on. Start it all over again. Always the Russian way. Stay stoic. Ignore the burning in your chest. It's just a little pain, you can handle it.
He's slamming the shotglass down on the table and motioning for another, and lighting his cigarette, bluish smoke curling into the air over his head. He's not drunk, not yet, but he won't be leaving until he's absolutely smashed.
It's hanging in the air over him, like a spirit that won't leave him alone. Hovering. Too close. He shakes his head and accepts the shotglass that's left in front of him, runs his fingernail against frost covered glass, then lifts it and downs the shot, slams it back down, and then takes another drag from his cigarette.
Four hours later, he's stumbling outside, clothes soaked in the smell of cheap tobacco and vodka, head ringing with the loud music and the chatter and the pain of the headache, hand gripped around the neck of the bottle of vodka he bought from the bartender. Bought being the term for inquired about its purchase and when he was shot down, the flash of steel inside his jacket and the passage of rubles across the worn oak bar.
He lights another cigarette, and allows the smoke to follow him across the bleak landscape, dirty snow in the streets and grey clouds above, fog whisping through the buildings, mixing with the smoke rising above him as he walks. How he arrives at his destination, he's not quite sure, but he slips through unlocked gates and stumbles across dirty snow, trying not to trip on the headstones, eyes flickering over names and dates and numbers. Head spinning, heart pounding, knuckles white around the bottle in his hand.
The snow is darker where he falls, mixed with freshly turned dirt, mud, little pebbles that dig into his knees, ice crystals cutting into his bare palm as he curls his fingers into frozen earth. He's cold, and but he shouldn't be cold, because he's drunk and he's still wearing his clothes. Spirit is supposed to make you warm inside.
That's what his mother had told him. Of course she had meant God and the saints and not vodka by the bottle, but what did it matter anymore. He flicked his cigarette away and drew up his knees, back against the rough hewn stone.
Sergeyev.
His own last name.
His parents.
Blood stained tile, he'd tried to clean it but the grout just held the color, he'd wiped away the blood on the wall of the kitchen, cold tile under his hands, like the cold snow he was sitting on, the cold stone against his back, the cold feeling of her hand pressed against his. Too late. He was too late. He'd ran like hell but they were already gone, the killers disappearing into the night, the fog, like they were never there at all, taking the souls of his parents with them into the night, freeing them into the afterlife.
No.
Not real.
Can't be real. He's not a bad person. He has his enemies but they wouldn't kill his parents.
He makes himself shut up and lights another cigarette, hands trembling from the cold, going to the bottle, smooth liquid burning like fire down his throat before he sets the bottle down and slumps against the headstone, cheeks reddened from the cold, eyes reddened from the smoke and the tears that are freezing on his cheeks. The dirt under his fingernails makes him shiver more.
He finds himself speaking to the fog, to the smoke curling above his head with each exhalation of the breath, to the ghosts he's spending his time with, drowning himself in his sorrows in their presence, and to his parents.
Nikolai
Original Character
730 words.
OOC: Written ficlet style, but comments/RP is welcome. Just don't be put off if he's a little distant on the subject matter.
It was vodka. Of course it was vodka, because the man was a Russian and it was the way, to get drunk, on vodka, vodka that cost more than the shirt he had on at the moment. Russian way. Keep it locked up safe and sound, do the dirty business in the dead of night, move on. Start it all over again. Always the Russian way. Stay stoic. Ignore the burning in your chest. It's just a little pain, you can handle it.
He's slamming the shotglass down on the table and motioning for another, and lighting his cigarette, bluish smoke curling into the air over his head. He's not drunk, not yet, but he won't be leaving until he's absolutely smashed.
It's hanging in the air over him, like a spirit that won't leave him alone. Hovering. Too close. He shakes his head and accepts the shotglass that's left in front of him, runs his fingernail against frost covered glass, then lifts it and downs the shot, slams it back down, and then takes another drag from his cigarette.
Four hours later, he's stumbling outside, clothes soaked in the smell of cheap tobacco and vodka, head ringing with the loud music and the chatter and the pain of the headache, hand gripped around the neck of the bottle of vodka he bought from the bartender. Bought being the term for inquired about its purchase and when he was shot down, the flash of steel inside his jacket and the passage of rubles across the worn oak bar.
He lights another cigarette, and allows the smoke to follow him across the bleak landscape, dirty snow in the streets and grey clouds above, fog whisping through the buildings, mixing with the smoke rising above him as he walks. How he arrives at his destination, he's not quite sure, but he slips through unlocked gates and stumbles across dirty snow, trying not to trip on the headstones, eyes flickering over names and dates and numbers. Head spinning, heart pounding, knuckles white around the bottle in his hand.
The snow is darker where he falls, mixed with freshly turned dirt, mud, little pebbles that dig into his knees, ice crystals cutting into his bare palm as he curls his fingers into frozen earth. He's cold, and but he shouldn't be cold, because he's drunk and he's still wearing his clothes. Spirit is supposed to make you warm inside.
That's what his mother had told him. Of course she had meant God and the saints and not vodka by the bottle, but what did it matter anymore. He flicked his cigarette away and drew up his knees, back against the rough hewn stone.
Sergeyev.
His own last name.
His parents.
Blood stained tile, he'd tried to clean it but the grout just held the color, he'd wiped away the blood on the wall of the kitchen, cold tile under his hands, like the cold snow he was sitting on, the cold stone against his back, the cold feeling of her hand pressed against his. Too late. He was too late. He'd ran like hell but they were already gone, the killers disappearing into the night, the fog, like they were never there at all, taking the souls of his parents with them into the night, freeing them into the afterlife.
No.
Not real.
Can't be real. He's not a bad person. He has his enemies but they wouldn't kill his parents.
He makes himself shut up and lights another cigarette, hands trembling from the cold, going to the bottle, smooth liquid burning like fire down his throat before he sets the bottle down and slumps against the headstone, cheeks reddened from the cold, eyes reddened from the smoke and the tears that are freezing on his cheeks. The dirt under his fingernails makes him shiver more.
He finds himself speaking to the fog, to the smoke curling above his head with each exhalation of the breath, to the ghosts he's spending his time with, drowning himself in his sorrows in their presence, and to his parents.
Nikolai
Original Character
730 words.
OOC: Written ficlet style, but comments/RP is welcome. Just don't be put off if he's a little distant on the subject matter.